


The Foundation of Miscalculation

by Noelliza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Hogwarts Fourth Year, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, POV Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29352642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelliza/pseuds/Noelliza
Summary: Being sentenced to a year imprisoned in Malfoy Manor following the war left Draco Malfoy with very few options: roam through the many halls, stare out into the gardens from his bedroom window, read some of the thousands of books in the library, or travel back in time to his fourth year to prevent Voldemort from returning to power. Not an easy decision to make.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	The Foundation of Miscalculation

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first fan fiction (ever). About a month ago, I decided to tackle an idea given to me by a friend which entails Draco traveling back in time. I’d like to show my appreciation to everyone who has supported me through this process so far, you have all been so crucial to the development of this story! Special thank you to alo_vera_0wO and Elaine_ORoake for beta-ing this chapter, and to Peftasteria and tamakistan for helping me brainstorm the plot. I don’t have a posting schedule unfortunately because I’m currently in school, but I will write when I can. Now, without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter!

The Manor has yet to dissolve the ghosts of the events from months prior. If one pauses long enough in a vacant corridor, they could still feel the once prominent presence of the Dark Lord as he stalked through the dining room, blood-shot eyes piercing through anything they landed on. One could sense the smooth strokes of Nagini’s slender body sweeping the ground, following the man’s gradual, steady stride across the room like a shadow of his inner form. Or the evocation of the familiar chill that travels down along the ridges of one’s spine at the raise of the Dark Lord’s arm, wielding his yew wand, a fatal spell on the tip of his tongue. 

From the day Draco was sentenced to the empty halls of the Manor for 365 days precisely, the horrors of the past did not escape him. He cannot shake the fear that a Death Eater may barge into his room in the dead of night to do with him as they please. Dark circles developed under his eyes as he could no longer rest properly without feeling the looming terror of his death approaching at a moment’s notice. No individual could shake off that amount of distress after the endurance of such a lifestyle for days upon days that—without notice—stretched into months full of tortured screams resonating from the basement and constant surveillance of his every move.

The sound of Draco’s footsteps bounces off the walls of the hallway as he approaches his bedroom. The incandescent sun has long been set, replaced by the gentle, glowing moon accompanied by stars permeating the night sky. He finds the somber of night more soothing than the radiance of day as the shadows of the sun merge into a singular entity. 

The presence of darkness is a gift. It provides Draco with a blank canvas to fill with his conceived visions of himself in the Slytherin common room, lounged on the couch by the fire, Pansy and Blaise sitting on either side of him. It allows his mind’s eye to escape to a better place. Someplace vast and open where unrestrained laughter echos through the air.

In these hours, Draco no longer feels the need to peer over his shoulder at the sudden shift of a dark figure. Light serves him no purpose, for Draco has every crevice, every sharp turn, and every trick step etched into his mind as he roams the halls. Even then, the ghosts don’t fully escape him, but it’s the only form of solace he could find within the barren walls of the place he once called home. 

The paintings of ancestors that previously fashioned the Manor’s towering enclosures are gone, leaving only barriers that make up the maze of his prison. Draco gives his thanks to any potential omnipotent beings above that he was not given the same fate as his father, but he cannot ignore the cold ache that seeps into every one of his bones as he crosses the floors once touched by the balms of his worst nightmare. 

Draco enters the expansive bedroom that no longer feels like his own and fixes his sight on a section of the far wall behind the bed. He walks across the room to the unobstructed expanse beside his bed. Patterns of bright flowers spiral wildly across the bedroom wall, enchanting and vibrant. Upon closer inspection, the design is interrupted by tens of small identical lines, carved one after the other in perfect rows and columns.

Pausing for a moment, he takes in the largely increasing number. 147, he counts. He stares for a second longer to absorb the detailed petals of the gold and scarlet hollyhocks that grace the surface before adding a new addition to the collection. Even the designs of his room took part in the molding of his whole identity; the flower representing ambition. If Draco had any ounce of that trait within him to begin with, nothing remains now.

His eyes follow the curved lines of stems expanding and weaving across the expanse of the wall. In this moment, the pervasive wallpaper, flowers growing upon flowers, appears to have more freedom than Draco ever did—unbeknownst to him until the moment he reentered his old home, realizing it felt no more suffocating than before.

After the next, only 217 days will remain, although in reality, Draco knows his sentence is truly life-long. He’s aware that nothing will ever be the same again, and it may be for the better, despite it being against his self-interest. The Malfoy name has been tarnished far past the point of restoration. Even the defense of Harry Potter—the now Savior of the Wizarding World—could not manage to gain an ounce of sympathy from those his family had harmed. This was not something Draco failed to anticipate; not after the hundreds of irrevocable breaches created by the brief flashes of green light. Occurrences that never should have taken place.

Draco shuts out the hauntings of no longer distant cries and desperate pleas of mercy before raising his wand arm up to the empty space in front of him. The firm grip on the wand doesn’t waver as he delicately carves a vertical line next to one almost identical to it, eyes narrowed in concentration, with only a silent whisper of the spell formed by his lips. 217. It’s not quite half yet, but he’ll get there. One day at a time, he breathes. 

He continues his new mantra and sets the wand onto his dresser, rubbing his fingers together absently. The wand he possesses is no longer his own. Upon the end of battle, both his and his mother’s wands were hastily confiscated by Aurors, and they refused to return them after their sentencing. The one rolling back and forth on the mahogany wood of the nightstand was given to him the night he returned to the Manor, which was made to only be able to do simple, everyday spells. 

On day 24, he began examining the wand’s design and abilities out of sheer boredom, curious to know the extent of its power and how it would adjust to his magic. When he determined how minimal his knowledge was, Draco sought to absorb the information from the books residing in the library, left untouched for far longer than he deemed acceptable. 

Over the course of 42 non-consecutive days, Draco had memorized every fact about the crafting of wands. His old wand, 10" long, made of hawthorn wood, with a unicorn hair core, represented contradicting nature along with faithfulness. The new wand set with various limitations was 12 ¾ inches long, made of ebony, and had a phoenix core. Ebony’s compatibility lay within courageous, strong-minded individuals, and when mixed with the phoenix’s adamant independence and judiciousness with its chosen owner, it proves to be an exceptional match. In other words, it was, quite frankly, the worst combination for Draco to use as a tool for his magic. 

Whether the Aurors did this out of twisted humor or just by mere coincidence, Draco would never know. However, what he does know is that he can hardly do more than conjure a light or summon objects—and that’s after at least several attempts. If this was done to make Draco feel just as powerless as before, then the Aurors have proven successful.

Draco makes his way towards the en suite bathroom, focusing on the feel of his feet pressing against the soft carpet—his attempt to ground himself. As he approaches the sink breathing in deeply, he avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror, unable to meet his own gaze now without seeing Potter standing behind him with his infuriating look of pity sent in his direction. Only seconds before the nearly fatal curse left his lips, permanently slicing Draco’s abdomen, scars extending from his hips up to his sternum. He can never seem to escape that emerald gaze behind the infamous round frames, even while hidden away behind his own cell. 

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, pleading with his mind not to provide the visual once again, as it does almost every night without fail. It creeps up on him, like shadows from the afternoon light, as he stares at the canopy above, or from the sound of running water, the water that streamed down as he lay, a pool surrounding him with the flowing of crimson. 

Draco’s hand shakes as he wills himself to pull the lever of the faucet. He can’t budge, lacking the strength to face the demons scratching through the walls of his mind. 

A gentle knock breaks Draco out of his reverie, and he turns to see his mother standing at the doorway, her eyes filled with an abiding sadness that has rarely left her face since the day of the trial. Her lavender, silky night gown is as pristine as ever, as she refuses to lose her elegance even behind closed doors—out of principle. 

“Do you have a moment?” Her soft tone reverberating through the unmoving room, calmness laced through her words.

Draco simply nods his head yes, fearful of opening his mouth, wanting to keep the monsters inside him from clawing their way out towards her. His mother is the only person left in the world he loves. Not that the numbers were ever very high, before. 

They may not express their affection for one another outwardly, however it is undoubtedly ever-present. In the way she squeezed his hand every time they walked into a room with him. The single tear that traced her cheek the few moments before turning to the red eyes that sealed his fate as a marked man. The warm, reassuring smile she sends across the table as they share a meal together every day. When she led him off to Hogwarts for the last time and held his head between her graceful hands, her words simple yet imploring, “Stay safe for me, my Dragon.”

Harry Potter, the most famous orphan of the wizarding world, may have lost the chance of experiencing unconditional love from his parents, but he will never understand the pain of bearing the knowledge that you have caused your own mother such deep, unresolved sorrow. 

“There is something I would like to show you, Draco,” she says, her voice briefly faltering before collecting herself. Draco’s stomach drops at the sight of his mother. He has been with her long enough to know when apprehension is circulating through her body, even when she may be hiding it. The lines of her face have worsened, aging her more in the past few months than in the past several years. Her once long luscious strands have thinned. However, Draco still considers her to be the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on. 

Draco nods to her again in affirmation and follows her out into the hall, his feet hesitating as he steps out of the room. His mind whirls as he tries to imagine what she has for him since their world has shrunken down to this confinement for 147 days. By now, he has explored every room, some even more than once. It was the only way to keep his mind occupied, to give himself a purpose. The first 12 days he spent either underneath the comforter or in the dining room with his mother. 

Eventually, his mind started wandering outside his body into places so terrifying that he felt as if the snake was still sliding throughout the cavern, its tongue poking into his ear, accompanied by a hiss. 

They eventually reach the doors leading into his father’s study, the ones left unopened since their arrival 147 days prior. Draco does not include this as a room in the Manor under his mental categorizations. This space holds only a moment in time, which Draco, despite his minor inclinations into insanity, refused to relive as he began his venture through the building on the 12th day. Looking past the crack of the doorway is enough to resurrect the sound of his own screams, as if they’re being pulled out of his body even in that moment. He freezes, unable to pass through, all his muscles tensing. His mother turns to him with a look of understanding, and continues into the room. 

As he waits for her to return, his eyes focus on the lines of the dark wooden doors that reach up to the high ceiling. He guesses it is composed of walnut due to the rich brown hue and the curves of the lines trailing the wood. He wonders who spent the time carving the door into perfection, and imagined the careful process. His mother returns to his sight, shutting the door behind her. She clasps something in her hand away from his view, something Draco is almost positive he doesn’t want to see. Nothing good could ever come out of that room. Not after that day. 

“I have been thinking about this for a long time. You do not have to decide right now, dear, but I just want to let you know in case you decide it is the right decision. I trust your judgement,” She closes her eyes for a moment before reaching out to grasp Draco’s hand. His mother carefully places the object into his palm and wraps his fingers around it. As she drops her arms, Draco is gathering the courage to look down at his hand.

“This belonged to your father, though he kept this a secret in fear that—“ She cuts herself off, Draco understanding who she is referring to, “He hoped that if the worst occurred, another chance would be at his disposal. As he is not currently present… it seems the task is left to us. However, between the both of us, I feel as though you would be better suited to take this on, if you so choose,” She finishes, the lines on her forehead more prominent from worry. 

After a beat he finally glances down and opens his hand. There, sitting calmly in the center of his palm, is the shiny, circular object in question. 

His mother wants him to use a Timer-Turner? 

“This is a prototype created about 50 years ago when the Unspeakables first began researching time travel. Lucius’ great grandfather was part of it, and he kept one for the family should they ever need it. Lucius told me about this after he returned to the Manor, just in case. Everything is explained in these journals written by Oraios Malfoy. It includes all the research he and his colleagues had found.” She hands him two, leather-bound notebooks, both worn down around the edges. As he stares down at them, the engraved initials O.S.M., made visible by the reflections from the moonlit windows, there’s no doubt in his mind what his decision will be.

***

The next 94 days are spent resolutely scouring the library for texts that will help him form a plan. Draco does not want to dive straight into this and improvise; he may be a lot of things—a Death Eater for one—but he is no Gryffindor. He has dedicated almost every hour of every day into constructing the most flawless, elaborate plan conceivable in order to prevent Voldemort from coming back to life. His mind whirled of endless possibilities that could occur due to potential actions; he wants to prepare for any and all scenarios so that no curveballs can be thrown his way. Draco knows how risky this plan is, but he officially has nothing to lose at this point, because the worst has already happened. 

After reading the documents containing his grandfather’s research, Draco learns that this model of a Time-Turner could only take a person back in time, not forwards. Therefore, Draco only has one shot at success. The Time-Turner would take him back to the age he was at that point in time and replace himself, unlike the ones recently developed where one’s previous self is still present. Additionally, it only allows the traveler to go back 5 years from the first usage, and it cannot be used again until the time has caught up to the original point in time it was used. 

While formulating his plan, Draco recalls the information he overhead his father discuss with the residual Death Eaters during his fourth year about the Dark Lord’s return. Eventually, he determines that his main objectives are to prevent Potter from going to the graveyard and to expose Barty Crouch Jr. as Mad-Eye Moody’s impersonator. 

The thought makes him want to laugh; never in a million years did Draco ever imagine he would seek to defy everything that his family and the generations of his ancestors stood for. However, he cares more about keeping his family intact than allowing a megalomaniac to seize reign over the world.

Draco had much time to reflect his life during his stay at the Manor as the ministry most likely wanted him to do. He still doesn’t quite understand why some wizards think it is acceptable to mix with the muggles—they are destructive creatures—but he doesn’t believe this justifies murdering them all in cold blood or ruling over them. Draco would just prefer to live separately from them. 

He is starting to accept the idea of Muggleborns, admitting to himself that Granger is more skilled than he will ever be even with her blood status. Clearly, blood does not define power; that has been demonstrated. However, he still can’t shake his bias towards them that has been ingrained into him since the minute he was born. 

As he recites the plan to himself for the 50th time precisely, word for word, he decides it’s finally time. With his heart pounding wildly, he recognizes that if he does not leave now, then he never will. He takes a few minutes to collect his belongings and take a few needed breaths. He decides against saying good-bye to his mother, reassuring himself that he will see her again in a blink of an eye. Draco has never been a brave person, but in his heart he knows this is what he must do. He looks down at the golden pendant placed around his neck, held up within by his hand, his eyes narrow with intent.

A few turns, and he’s gone.


End file.
